She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t even breathe differently.
Silence like that is dangerous.
And I don’t like that.
I check the phone. Messages. Nothing. Call log. Empty.
Too empty.
Either she wiped it.
Or she didn’t memorize numbers from her old phone.
Good.
I hand it back without comment.
Her fingers close around it slowly.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Bring your jacket.”
She doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t ask why. She just stands. Walks to the chair. Shrugs into the leather jacket.
She’s gone from fire moments ago to ash. I don’t like it.
We step into the hall. I take a helmet from the hook, shove it toward her.
She accepts it without a word.
That pisses me off more than if she argued. I sigh, step in close, and take it back from her hands. Put it on her myself. Fasten the strap, fingers brushing her jaw.
Her eyes meet mine through the visor, empty, too quiet.
“You’ll ride with me. Don’t need to go far,” I tell her.
She nods once.
I lead her out to the garage, where the Ducati waits.
I swing a leg over.
She climbs on behind me.
Her arms sliding around me. I feel her press against my back, thighs bracketing mine, but her grip is barely there.
“Tighter,” I growl, revving the engine. “Unless you want to fly off when I turn.”
Her arms tighten fractionally. It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do.
We pull out onto the street. The ride is short. Ten minutes. The warehouse lights are already on when we arrive.
I cut the engine. Her hands fall away from me as soon as I do.
She follows.
Inside, the air smells like iron and sweat. The man is already half bloody. Tied to the chair. Head hanging. Two of my men there. Pietro stands off to the side, arms crossed.
Dimitri is working the ribs with calm, precise strikes; a surgeon with a vendetta.
